


Turn Into Earth

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, M/M, because Sam is dead, but it's hopeful for Dean and Cas, but still mainly sad because Sammy, mention of past cas/other, sad fic, so not entirely sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after sealing off Heaven and Hell and sending Castiel away, Dean is living at the farmhouse that was once Sonny's Home for Boys when Sam dies. Castiel comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Into Earth

It's almost eleven in the evening, but Dean answers the door as soon as Castiel knocks.  


“You're going gray,” is the first thing he says.

“So are you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his smile forced, “I guess ten years will do that.”

Something in Castiel crumbles, gives way to a regret so all-encompassing that he can barely hold himself up, and he moves forward, pulling Dean into their first hug since Purgatory. He feels Dean sink against him, sagging under the weight of everything, and can't believe how stupid he's been. How stupid they've both been.

“Garth called me, ” he says into the hair behind Dean's ear, “I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm so, so sorry.”

Dean just clutches him more tightly. When he finally speaks, it's not something Castiel wants to hear.

“The service is tomorrow.”

 

* * *

They're on the back veranda, sitting in wooden chairs that face out toward farmland, watching the rain fall. It's late, and slowly, the rain lessens. Soon all they hear is the occasional _plink_ of a drop falling from the drainpipe.

“There's all these people coming,” Dean says, voice brittle as the quiet it cuts through, “his friends. They'll expect me to give a eulogy, but I've... I mean, where the hell do I even start?”

“I can do it, if you like.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, looking down at the empty bottle in his hands, label peeling away under anxious fingers, “no, it's... I have to do it.”

“The last time I spoke to him,” Castiel says, “a few months ago, he told me that you were building a tree house over at the new home.”

“He told you about that?”

Castiel inclines his head.

“He was so proud of you, Dean. For what you did here. Helping all those kids.”

“How am I meant to—” Dean closes his eyes, lips tight as he fights back the feeling threatening to push him over the edge, “fuck, Cas. He shouldn't—it should have been me.”

Castiel knows there's no point arguing with him. He keeps quiet. Waits for Dean to find some sense of equilibrium. Fights the urge to try and hug him again. He isn't sure he's allowed.

“Thanks for coming,” Dean says eventually, eyes still sealed, and Castiel nods down toward his own peeling bottle, as Dean seems to steel himself to speak again, “how long are you going to stay?”

“As long as you need me.”

“Never stopped.”

Staring down at the bottle, turning in his hands, Castiel sees the lines in his skin. Ten years of wanting, of loneliness, of missing this man, and now—he huffs out a breath through his nose. Smiles. It hurts to smile tonight.

“I wish you would have told me.”

“Yeah, well. You know me. Not so good with the whole...”

Dean waves a hand vaguely between them, and Castiel nods in agreement.

“Sam was still on my back about it,” Dean says after a while, “about calling you.”

“He was?”

“A couple of months ago he told me you were in New York helping out someone with a case.”

“It was Josephine. She was hunting a kitsune not far from here. I had lunch with Sam on my way back to Ohio. That was—”

Beside him, he sees Dean tense, and he cuts himself off. The words are still there though, hanging in the air. That was the last time he saw Sam. The last time he ever would.

Somehow, despite being outdoors, he feels as though they're in a tiny room, starved of oxygen. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, forcing the word out as if it were solid, a heavy thing in his mouth, “he told me. Invited me, actually.”

“You would have hated the restaurant. It was vegan.”

Dean's mouth raises at one side, but the smile is gone again in an instant.

“What happened, Cas?” he asks, “we were... besides Sam, you were all I... I mean, you were kind of it for me, you know? I don't know what happened.”

“You told me to go. I went.”

“Why didn't you come back?”

“Pride, I suppose.”

“I should have called you.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Pride,” Dean says after a moment, looking across at him with a sad smile, “with you and me, it's always fucking pride.”

 

* * *

When they stand they feel their age in their bones, creaking knees and stiff shoulders. The house is big, and they walk through it quietly, switching out lights as they go. Dean pushes open the door to the room spare room, the room Sam used every now and then when he stayed here. There's a book on the nightstand, page marked with a business card, left from his last visit. Castiel sees Dean staring at it. Knows he's thinking, _Sam will never finish that book_ , and wants so badly to fix it. There's no way, though. Not any more. Not since Heaven and Hell were sealed. 

Ten years. Next week, it'll be ten years. He feels as though this is all some cosmic joke; Sam saved the world and ended up with the equivalent of a crossroads deal.

“There's an extra blanket in the top drawer,” Dean says, pointing toward the dresser, eyes still on the book, “if you get cold.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Why?” Dean asks, looking back at him, “you gonna watch me sleep?”

There's sarcasm in his voice, but in his eyes is a kind of quiet desperation, and instead of answering Castiel gives in and pulls him close, winds his arms tightly around his back and smooths wide palms down over his shoulder blades. Dean exhales against his neck, one short huff of warmth, and grips him, clings, holds on for dear life. 

For a moment, Castiel thinks of hell. Of how Deans soul held on to his grace. It was so long ago, now. His memories of his old self have faded, many of them lost completely, but _this—_ this memory is sharp enough to leave a sulfuric tang on the back of his tongue. 

Dean had been terrified, then. He's terrified now, too, but it's a different kind of fear. Quieter.

“You need only ask,” Castiel tells him quietly, “there's no shame in it, Dean. I'll sit with you if you want me to.”

He feels the nod almost immediately, but it's a while before Dean manages to speak. His voice is thick.

“Won't you get tired?”

“I'll manage.”

The master bedroom is at the end of the hall, and Dean switches off the light of the spare room before leading the way, pointing out the bathroom and telling Castiel he can change in there. By the time Castiel knocks on the door, Dean has the light off. He's under the covers, on his side, and Castiel understands that he's embarrassed. Ashamed, though he shouldn't be, that he needs company. There's an armchair close by, and after he's pushed the door shut behind him, Castiel makes his way toward it.

He's been sitting, watching the furrow that appears and disappears on Dean's brow, for almost five minutes before Dean's voice floats through the dark.

“Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“Could you talk about something? I just... whenever it's quiet I can't stop thinking about... I need the distraction until I fall asleep or I just won't.”

“What should I talk about?”

“Tell me everything that happened to you since I saw you.”

“That's a lot.”

“Highlights, then.”

“Highlights. Alright.”

Frowning, Castiel settles more comfortably into the armchair and folds his hands over his lap.

“The month after I left the bunker, I stole a car. It was a Buick. It broke down in Wyoming and I almost got caught trying to steal a replacement.”

“Almost?”

“I'm a fast runner.”

Dean snorts against his pillow, pulling it more tightly to himself.

“A few months after that I had an accident in Chicago. I hit a patch of ice and skidded off the road. Went straight into an oak tree. Broke my collarbone.”

“Shit.”

“It was fine,” Castiel assures him, “healed quite quickly. I stayed in Chicago for a while, though. Started dating a nurse from the hospital.”

“Yeah? What was her name?”

“Robert.”

“Funny name for a lady.”

Castiel huffs out a breath through his nose, and when he glances over at Dean, lit up in stripes by slanted moonlight, he sees the curve of a smile on his lips. He presses on.

“I moved in with him after a couple of weeks, which I now understand is considered _moving too fast_. He... wasn't very interesting, really. I stayed for a lot longer than I should have, but it was... nice, I suppose. The closeness.”

He doesn't add that the thing he liked most was the way Robert's voice would curl around his name, how his accent was almost the same as Dean's, how when he'd close his eyes, he could almost pretend he was home again.

“But obviously it didn't work out in the end, and I moved on to South Dakota. Not much happened for a while—I worked in a supermarket, lived in a motel, ate a lot of microwave dinners—and then I heard from Sam, who put me in touch with Garth. You probably know this part, though.”

“I don't. Whenever... for a long time back then when he'd talk about you, I'd cut him off. He stopped telling me things.”

“Oh.”

“I was a fuckin' moron, Cas. Please. Tell me. I don't want to miss anything else, okay?”

In the light, he can see Dean's eyes, wide and sincere, and he has to look away again before he goes on.

“Garth had a text that required translation, and I assisted him with it. When he found out that I could read and speak every human language and a few others, he told me that hunters would probably pay for my help if they were aware of my abilities. That's when I started the translation work. Garth falsified some documents and I got a job in the Language department of a community college in Cleveland. I've been working there since, still helping hunters on the side,” he hesitates a moment before adding, “that's how I met a hunter a few years back... that relationship lasted slightly longer than the nurse, though was probably just as ill-advised.”

“What was his name?”

“Natalie.”

“You know, I'd stop jumping to the wrong conclusion if you'd use a pronoun once in a while.”

“I'd rather keep you on your toes.”

“Is there... I mean, is there someone now? Back home? Male, female... animal, vegetable, mineral?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Is there... do you have someone?”

“Never could find anyone I cared about that much. No one who felt the same, anyway.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well. What're you gonna do?”

For a while they both fall quiet, a strange kind of tension in the air, and Castiel loathes himself for realizing what it is. Now, of all times. Sam is dead. Dean is mourning. He is _mourning_. Perhaps another time, if either one of them had managed to shelve their pride sooner, it would have been alright for him to act on the impulse that is begging him to slip from the chair and perch at the edge of Dean's bed, to crawl beneath the covers and kiss the sadness from his lips. Not now, though. Even thinking of it now feels disrespectful. 

As a compromise he reaches out and covers Dean's hand with his own. He ignores the way it tenses under his; pays attention instead to the way it turns, after a moment, and holds on.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, and hopes that Dean understands.

“Glad to have you back home,” Dean mumbles, squeezing his hand before dropping it, and Castiel doesn't have it in him to mention that he's never been here before.

 

* * *

It's a hot day, bright blue sky stretching from horizon to horizon, and as birds swoop from the trees, Castiel waits for Dean. It's too bright, the weather too pleasant for a day like this.

The service was a small one, Dean's speech simple and short.

Among the mourners, there were a few people Castiel knew, or knew of, but most were strangers to him. People Sam had befriended in the years since he'd retired from hunting to pursue the more scholarly lifestyle of a Man of Letters. Some of them knew Dean well, and Castiel could read the familiarity in the way their hands closed around Dean's while they spoke with him. Others were close with Sam only, and they kept mostly to themselves, sharing little more than a quiet _I'm so sorry_ with Dean before leaving. He looks toward the street, where the few other mourners have already returned to their cars. 

Now, it's just the two of them left outside the church. 

The hearse is long gone, but Dean still stands beneath the oak near the door, one palm resting against the wood as he breathes slowly. It hurts, seeing him like this. Knowing Sam is really gone this time.

Time was, they'd have burned him themselves. Now, the strain of building the pyre, of finding a place to set it up, of lifting Sam's body onto the wood and setting it alight was too much for their bones, and besides, it had been an embolism in the end. Sam's body was in the morgue before Dean knew anything had even happened.

“Cas?” Dean says, and it's too quiet for the distance, too quiet under the sound of the breeze in the leaves overhead, but Castiel always could hear him when it counted, and graceless or not that hasn't changed.

“Are you ready to go home?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me your keys.”

The Impala feels different in the drivers seat. 

The rumble of the engine rolls up the steering column, through the wheel, and he feels it in his bones. Beside him, head leaning against the window, eyes closed, Dean is a quiet presence. Castiel drives slowly, carefully. He indicates every lane change, every turn, whether the road is empty or not, and they arrive back at the farmhouse in nearly twice the time it took them on the way out.

Dean is asleep, and Castiel doesn't wake him.

The stereo is playing quietly; a cassette tape that crackles from overuse, and when it reaches the end Castiel presses the eject button, turns it around, and puts it back. Last time he saw Dean, he wouldn't have been able to name the band. Now he knows the names of all the members, the lyrics to the song. He's got this album, himself—the CD, at any rate—back in his apartment in Cleveland. So much has changed.

When he looks over at Dean's flickering eyelids, at the shadows below, at the freckles and the lips and the twitching fingers of his best friend dreaming, he knows that some things haven't changed at all. Love is funny like that, he thinks. The way it lingers.

For almost forty minutes, Dean sleeps, and Castiel lets him. He barely got two hours last night, and waking him now is more than he can stand. He sits, quiet, contemplative, in the seat beside him. Watches over him, as he used to.

When he finally wakes, he blinks groggily for a few seconds before he remembers. Castiel can tell the moment that Sam's death crosses his mind, and it breaks Castiel's heart to see the pain return to his eyes.

“How long have we been sitting here?”

“Not long. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll make you something.”

“You can cook?”

“Come on.”

Dean's kitchen, it seems, is laid out much the same as his own. Cutlery in the top drawer, utensils below; glasses in the cabinet over the counter, dishes to the left. He finds pans below the stove, and after striking a match he leaves one to heat up while he digs through the fridge for eggs. 

Over the years he's been told by more than one person that his ham-and-cheese omelet is the best they've tasted, and if there's one thing he learned in his time living with the Winchesters, no matter how long ago, it's that a Dean with a full stomach is far better equipped to deal with his problems than a Dean without. He intends to do what little he can.

Naturally, though, it's now that his hands decide to start their shaking.

Arthritis was not something he'd been anticipating, but it's there all the same, making his wrist ache as he cracks the eggs. He doesn't groan as he usually does. He focuses on keeping his movements steady, on beating the eggs, on grating the cheese.

Dean only eats half of the omelet before hurrying out of the room, and Castiel hears him being sick. He knows it's not the food. He wishes he knew what to do.

Without any other ideas, he starts cleaning.

 

* * *

 

Three days after the funeral, Dean has barely spoken, the house is spotless, and Castiel pulling up weeds in the front yard. It's late afternoon, and though the sky is overcast the heat from the earlier days lingers. It's stifling, humid, and he wonders what it's like back in Cleveland. Wonders if he's missed, there. Unsurprisingly, he finds he doesn't much care.

“Cas?” Dean's voice is right behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to see him silhouetted against the sun, “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Mm?”

“Can we...” Dean gestures back toward the veranda, and Castiel pushes to his feet, dusting dirt from his knees.

“Of course.”

Once they're sitting in the creaking chairs, Dean stares out at the farmland, silent, and Castiel waits for him to say something. He waits. He waits.

“Dean?”

“Hold on, Cas. I'm... psyching myself up.”

“For what?”

Dean lets out a long breath through his nose and rubs his face with both hands, then his hair. His gaze is fixed resolutely on the floorboards.

“There were things I never said to Sam,” he says, carefully, as though reciting words from a script, “things I never let him know, and now it's too late. He didn't know I was proud of him. I never told him I loved him.”

“He knew.”

“Not the same as saying it.”

“I suppose not.”

“Anyway. My point is. I don't want to make that mistake again. Not saying stuff.”

“Okay.”

“Cas, I lo—” Dean presses his eyes closed, grits his teeth, shakes his head, “ _I love you_. And I don't just mean it how you probably think I mean it. I mean the capital L kind. And I never... I mean, I don't expect you to—”

“Me, too.”

Dean stops, looking up at him, watery-eyed and lost.

“Yeah?”

“Always, Dean.”

Reaching out, Castiel rests his hand over Dean's forearm and looks at his eyes until he catches them. He smiles, a small smile, quiet.

“Thank you,” he says, “for telling me. For being braver than me.”

Dean's expression is searching, as though he never anticipated this particular response.

“Where does this leave us?”

“I have no idea.”

Nodding, Dean looks away, out toward the horizon before glancing back to where Castiel's hand rests on his arm.

“I don't think we should... right now is probably not the best time to, like...”

“I agree.”

“But can you stay? Just until we figure it out. I want to try to figure it out.”

Castiel inclines his head, slipping his hand down until his fingers weave in between Dean's. 

In the fading light, with the weight of a decade and the empty space beside them all pressing down, there's a fragile kind of peace between their hands. They hold on for life.


End file.
